


Yours, J

by United



Series: Dearest Friend, [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, This Is STUPID, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 13:29:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22496884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/United/pseuds/United
Summary: Jaskier finds himself writing letters that he never intends to fall into the hands of the one he is writing them to.A lesser man or someone with an ounce of shame in his body would call his words pitiful and unworthy of the light of day. Jaskier however has never experienced shame in his life and sees the artistic value.So he has his letters published.In other completely unrelated news Valdo Marx is still a bastardeous scoundrel who intents to make his life hell, but this time Jaskier is finally doing something about the fucker.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Dearest Friend, [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1618534
Comments: 52
Kudos: 302





	1. Chapter 1

Against popular belief, Jaskier does not just write songs. He writes poetry and prose too. 

And after Posada, he finds himself writing letters that he never intends to fall into the hands of the one he is addressing in them.

A lesser man or someone with an ounce of shame in his body would call his words pitiful and unworthy of the light of day. Jaskier however has never experienced shame in his life and sees the artistic value.

So he has his letters published. Under a pseudonym, of course. It wouldn't do for the object of his affection to stumble upon those letters and that realize Jaskier is writing to them.

His Novigrad publisher prints an optimistic 200 copies in the spring after Geralt gains a child of surprise.

August the same year, they release a second edition with 4000 copies, that lasts them for barely a year.

Bless Yennefer of Vengerberg for supplying him with the muse for a second volume not long after. His publisher cries tears of joy when he throws a new bundle of parchment onto her desk that winter.

Then, after the dragon hunt, high on longing and pain, he cranks out a third volume in the weeks it takes Geralt to find him and somehow apologize without apologizing.

At least he's getting filthy fucking rich from enduring six years of this particular kind of torture. Drowning your sorrows is easier when you can afford the good schnaps.

He spends his winters in the most lavish quarters of the most expensive inn in Novigrad, sleeping his way through half the city, arguing with his publisher, drinking with his publisher, drinking alone and, again, writing more letters he has not intent of ever seeing delivered.

It's not like the courier would know where to find Kaer Morhen anyway.

Each spring, he and Geralt find each other again and he joins the witcher on his path until the leaves wither. They have a routine and it works just fine. Jaskier sings and sells lots and lots of books and Geralt 

Until Geralt almost gets his arm taken off by a particularly prissy kikimora.

Jaskier is digging through Geralt's travel pack for another vial of swallow, blood toxicity be damned, when he sees a worn copy or 'Dearest Friend,' at the bottom of the bag.

For a second his hands still. Then he's back to frantically making sure his muse doesn't expire from blood loss.

It's hours later, when Geralt is sleeping as peacefully as one can with a bone-deep wound in the shoulder, that he pulls the book out.

In the small hours of the night, he runs his fingers over his own work in astonishment.

It's the first volume, a first edition, too, worth an absolute fortune nowadays, even in the pitiful state it's in. It's certainly well-loved, a year from falling apart perhaps. Geralt, barbarian that he is, has dogeared various pages. Jaskier notices, with bittersweet delight, that the binding has been strengthened with glue and heavy starched paper.

He muffels a dry chuckle. Jaskier stopped counting the times Geralt insulted his talents soon after they met.

Yet he unwittingly ended up buying and cherishing something Jaskier wrote. It's funny and validating and heartbreaking all at the same time.

He holds the book by its spine and it falls open to reveal its most-read section.

The ink has faded considerably and the light falling in through the window is barely enough to make out the words, but Jaskier wrote this himself, after all.

'Dearest friend,

you are a source or endless frustration, have I ever told you so? The way you eat, the way you sleep, your manner of speech, it's as if you were made to give me a headache.

Everything you do draws my eyes to you and I've long grown tired of averting them. Yet you have given me no indication that they might be welcome resting on you.

I hope for a day where you see my glances for what they are and return them along with everything else.

What am I doing, my friend, insulting you so? Insinuating you do not know of me and my affliction. You are well-versed in these matters and your eyes are keen.

I am simply not what you wish for from life, nor do I deserve you.

You will always be you, unchanging, flawed to perfection. And I will always be the fool who can't help loving you.

Always yours,

J.'

"Any particular reason why you're going through my things?" Geralt rasps from the bed, yellow eyes shining cat-like.

"I didn't take you for someone who would read something like this." Jaskier says through the tightness of his throat.

"You think I've never loved in vain?"

And Geralt must still be loopy from the potions he poured down his throat earlier, talking about things like that.

"No. I've had a front row seat to Yennefer and you, after all."

Geralt only hums. It's quiet in the room and Jaskier thinks he might have fallen asleep again.

Then, softly, like a secret:

"I bought this long before I met Yen."

For some reason, Jaskier stands and comes to sit next to Geralt on the bed.

"Is there a tragic love story in your past you've been hiding from me? That makes for the best ballads." 

Geralt's looking at him through half-lidded eyes. He doesn't say anything, he just looks. He's definitely not himself right now.

"Jaskier," Geralt says finally, sounding pained, reaching out with his good arm. 

He settles a warm hand in the nape of Jaskier's neck and pulls him down gently.

Jaskier goes, he can't help himself.

Geralt is out of it, probably thinking of whatever bastard was stupid enough to refuse him, and he shouldn't let him do this, he shouldn't be so weak.

He's just the closest warm body Geralt with which he can take his mind off of whatever memories their conversation stirred up.

He lets himself be kissed anyway.

Geralt's mouth is warm and tastes faintly of herbs that would probably kill Jaskier in a high enough concentration. How fitting.

Geralt moves down to bury his face in the curve of Jaskier's neck instead. He feels his breath brush over his skin and he wants to lose himself in this.

"Lie with me?" Geralt asks and how could he refuse him?

(Has he ever refused him?)

Geralt pulls at him until he's lying half on top of him. Jaskier rests his head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat.

"Thank you." and Geralt is out like a light not soon after.

Jaskier lies awake much longer.

Then the sun is streaming in through the window and Geralt is sitting in front of the wash bowl, carefully cleaning his wound. 

'Dearest Friend,' is still sitting on the bedside table innocently.

"You're going to rip the stitches," Jaskier says, "Let me help you."

Geralt lets him pull the cloth from his hands and finish cleaning him up.

He's wrapping Geralt's shoulder in fresh bandages when he speaks again.

"I'd understand if you'd wish to leave. I could send you letters about any interesting hunts."

Ah, he's feeling guilty about using Jaskier as a means to an end last night. Ever so noble, even in his cruelty.

"It doesn't bother me, Geralt. Just. Maybe don't make it a habit?"

Their eyes meet in the mirror over the washing bowl and Geralt gives him a tight little nod.

There. Crisis averted. Status quo reasserted.

Geralt heals quickly and after two days, which Jaskier mostly spends entertaining the guests downstairs, and two nights, which Jaskier spends decidedly not sharing a bed with his heart's desire in mockery of what he longs for, they are on the road again.

'Dearest Friend,' has long since disappeared back into the depth of Geralt's luggage.

He's carrying around a thome filled to the brim with longing for him and he doesn't even know it. Doesn't know that the author is walking beside him through the crisp autumn morning.

It's rather cruel of destiny, Jaskier keeps musing, that Geralt is reading the words intended for him after all, yet thinking about someone that's very much not Jaskier. 

It does explain some of his aversion to Jaskier's tender feeling, after all. If he's still so heartbroken over someone he loved before they even met that he's worn out that poor book like that, he's probably not capable of what Jaskier wishes for anyway.

(He is under no illusion that he himself is not partly to blame for his rejection either. Geralt did try with the sorceress after all. ...Now that he's thinking about it, Yennefer's and his disastrous relationship is making a lot more sense too.)

The kiss and the night they spent curled up together will not leave him alone either. But this he welcomes. Not a week after and he's already finished three new letters. His publisher will be elated when he presents her with enough material for a fourth volume. 

But tension lingers between him and Geralt. It eases little by little with each night by the fire, each time Geralt can't keep the smile off his face at Jaskier's antics, each time Geralt asks for a song or another, but it stubbornly refuses to vanish truly.

A particularly chilly gust of air rushes over them and a shower of leaves follows.

It will be winter soon.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I say I was going to leave this as it's own work with a sad ending?  
> Well I lied to everyone including myself. Can't have sad endings.

It's almost a year after Geralt came to Jaskier for comfort in a fit of loneliness and he has since kept his word, there has been no repeat. 

Jaskier has published another volume of letters in the spring, now featuring the taste of the dearest friend's mouth and the beat of his heart against J's ear, and it's selling as well as expected.

The tension between him and the witcher didn't exactly go away, but it's simmering low enough not to bother Jaskier too much. This is their new normal, he supposes.

All is well or as well as it ever gets for Jaskier nowadays. 

And then it isn't. 

It’s a testament to how well Jaskier knows the witcher, that he can recognize the barely there look on his face as curiosity.

Jaskier folds the piece of parchment he just received neatly and lights it at the candle on their table. He drops the burning letter onto his plate and watches the flames erase the dangerous words.

“Bad news?” Geralt asks and takes a sip of his ale. 

The fire dies and only ashes remain, mixing with the bread crumbs.

“Depends.” Jaskier answers, contemplatively. 

“For me, it’s mildly inconvenient. For the whoreson that sent this?  _ Very bad. _ ”

“Is someone asking for your help, then?”

Jaskier chuckles.

“Oh, no. I’m being blackmailed.” 

Across the table, Geralt tenses. 

It warms Jaskier a little. To know that his friend does care for him, at least like this. Makes the ways in which Geralt doesn't care or want more bearable.

“Don’t worry. He’s blackmailing me with wrong information, the utter ignoramus. But it’s close enough to the truth that I must address it.”

Jaskier breathes deeply, leans back in his seat.

The witcher is looking at him with sharp interest. It makes him smile a little. 

He knows Geralt thinks he’s a swooning milksop. And compared to Geralt he probably is. He can’t wield a sword to save his life, he’s far from muscular and, that’s what probably cemented the image his friend has of him, he’s a plain, vanilla human. 

That’s getting rather rare nowadays. A couple generations after the convergence and almost everyone’s pedigree contains at least a smattering of non-human blood. Elven and dwarven are the most common, yet there are quite a few species capable and willing to produce offspring with humans. Succubi, Incubi, Sirens, Nymphs, Vampires, Werewolves, the list goes on. It always very hush hush, of course, but nobody is batting an eye at children with unusually colored irises or a hunter that can keep their bow drawn for longer than should be possible or a fisherman who should have drowned, but always resurfaces no worse for wear, like he can breath just fine under the waves.

Then there are of course the most extreme examples of not-quite-humans. Mages and mutants, like his dear friend.

The thing is, if Jaskier has non-humans in his family tree, the blood is so watered down it has no effect anymore, and he wouldn’t produce a drop of chaos if one was to wring him like a wet towel.

That makes him delicate in the witcher's eyes. Almost everyone gifted with speech must be delicate to him, except fellow witchers and the stronger of mages. 

But Jaskier, dressed in silks and the softest cotton, who introduces himself to the world with the name of a fragile, yellow flower, whimsy Jaskier, who cares for the arts and uses silver only as adornment and not as a weapon, he must be in a whole new category of vulnerability to the witcher. 

“Address it, how?” Geralt asks into the silence encompassing their rickety table. The rest of the night is far from quiet. It’s a lush summer evening and the innkeeper has had the seating carried out onto the townsquare and under the sprawling linden tree in its center. The people around them are well on their way to drunk and the air is full of conversation, whoops and shouting, crickets chirping.

“Jaskier, what are you going to do about it?”

He gives the witcher his most beaming smile.

“I’m going to fucking kill him, of course.”

Geralt looks at him like he suddenly grew a second head. It’s quite amusing, really.

See, Geralt is right about all of his observations, Jaskier isn’t very strong or capable with a sword and he’d lose a fight against the weakest of monsters. 

So Geralt thinks he would shatter like a fine porcelain teacup, if truly put under any kind of pressure.

He’s wrong. Very. But Jaskier hasn’t had the heart to dissuade him of that notion so far. 

(And sue him, but he also enjoys occasionally being fussed over after a brush with danger, even if Geralt would sew his mouth shut, should he ever call it ‘fussing’.)

It's not Geralt's fault for thinking so, really. Jaskier doesn't go around flaunting his youthful reputation as someone not to cross. It's bad marketing for a bard. He wants people to relax around him, be at ease, to fall into his music. 

(Not think of the mad Oxenfurt student who brought a pitchfork to a duel and  _ won.  _ Or without warning hit someone over the head with a chair for implying they would take it with force if the barmaid didn't give her company freely. He still thinks back to that tavern brawl quite fondly.)

His smile widens.

So many things Geralt doesn't know about him. Really, that he wrote a certain one-sided epistolaire is just the tip of the iceberg.

"You're mad." Geralt says.

"And that is news to you how? I follow you around for fun and profit, remember?"

Geralt hums, looking at him with drawn brows.

"You're going to get yourself killed."

"I very much doubt that. Valdo is a terrible swordsman. And he's always underestimated me."

_ Not unlike a certain witcher. _

"You can't wield a sword for shit." Geralt points out.

"Very observant of you, my friend." Jaskier deadpans.

"If you want my help, you'll need to use your words."

The poet rolls his eyes. 

"Gods, Geralt. Is it so hard to imagine that I can fight my own battles just fine? You think my pertinence for getting into trouble suddenly appeared when we met?"

Geralt hums, not sounding very convinced.

Jaskier can't help the irritation rising. 

"As always, your trust in my abilities lifts my spirit. I'm leaving for Oxenfurt in the morning. Come see for yourself how well I deal on my own. Or don't. I don't care."

He gets up abruptly and strides towards the inn. And it was such a lovely evening.

**Author's Note:**

> Toss a comment to your writer~


End file.
